


gone off to the coast

by concertconfetti



Series: Witchertober 2020 [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Festivals, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia and Jaskier | Dandelion Go To The Coast, Haunting, Lots of squinting here, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Song Lyrics, Sorta if you squint - Freeform, Whump, Witchertober, Wraith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:33:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26776672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/concertconfetti/pseuds/concertconfetti
Summary: It's a local festival of sorts - most of the villagers alive today don't remember how or when the festivities began, which God or monster they're meant to appease. Artists, the bards and mummers of the modern-day, those students who make pilgrimage to the village every year - some of them know. As work progresses on the cottage, they catch glimpses of a man in his forties, the beginnings of crows feet resting around his eyes. He hangs near the windows, engrossed in the waves and never, never acknowledges the music around him.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: Witchertober 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1952140
Comments: 4
Kudos: 42





	gone off to the coast

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Witchertober Day 1 - The Coast

None of the villagers approach the coastline in the late summer. The white sand beaches remain empty, grit lodges itself in the boardwalk stands as wind whips down the shore. The sea rolls in green waves, crashing against the beach and dragging any abandoned belongings into the sea with the tide. A house sits on a lonesome hill, sagging under the weight of generations, overlooking the sea churning under a bright blue sky. It's windowed eyes light themselves in the evenings; a wreath of shells hangs from the door around a carving of a wolf.

Each year, local volunteers to clean the cottage - they know they'll be fine if they sing ancient songs of love and loss, those whose composers’ names are remembered only in the halls of universities. And so the home is filled with singing as repairs are made to the rafters and stones are replaced in the garden. The herbalists plant daffodils and blowball in the window boxes, honeysuckle and verbena along the walk.

It's a local festival of sorts - most of the villagers alive today don't remember how or when the festivities began, which God or monster they're meant to appease. Artists, the bards and mummers of the modern-day, those students who make pilgrimage to the village every year - some of them know. As work progresses on the cottage, they catch glimpses of a man in his forties, the beginnings of crows feet resting around his eyes. He hangs near the windows, engrossed in the waves and never, never acknowledges the music around him. 

Until a young man from Oxenfurt sings an old melancholic piece, one he'd found in the university's expansive music archive, and the wraith moves. 

_"I am weak, my love, and I am wanting  
If this is the path I must trudge -"_

The young man sings and the cottage is still as the echo of a voice rasps around them - 

_I welcome my sentence_  
Give to you my penance  
Garrotter, jury and judge 

Strained singing becomes a screeching wail that sends the students fleeing the cottage - some of them leave the village entirely. Storms roll through the skies and the sea creeps closer to the town. At the edge of the woods, villagers claim to see a white wolf pacing the roads on its own. When night falls, the wolf stalks through the town, his bright amber eyes daring someone, anyone to approach him. No one does. 

The wolf follows his nose through the village center, past the butchers and the mortician, growling at anyone foolhardy enough to be outside. Despite this, a little girl wriggled free of her mother and ran up and threw her arms around the wolf, burying her face in his neck. 

“It’s okay,” the girl whispers, “he’s waiting.” 

So they go, a girl and a large, fearsome wolf plodding behind her confident toddle through the outskirts of town, ignoring the calls of well-meaning adults who are too afraid to walk out into the storm. Wind whips around the sea-side cottage, dandelion petals littering the path to the door swinging wildly off its hinges. All the festival trappings lay strewn on the floor, torn from the walls and the brand new rafters, an ill-defined wraith screaming and crying in the center of it all. Flower petals streaked past the girl and she stops, looking back at the wolf, his head hung low, tail between his legs. 

“You have to go in,” she cries, and with a mournful howl, he went in. 

For days the storm rages - the village floods and soon the villagers find themselves wading through the clear seawater with what they could carry on their backs. In days past, the alderman might have called on the services of a witcher, but the guild of monster hunters had long since passed into stories, and few had the talents to deal with the magic of this caliber. It was the last summer the villagers would spend along this stretch of coast - many thought it was for the best. Still, when the storms ended, some returned - the little girl slips away to the cottage when she and her mother return. There is no wraith or wolf among the wreckage, only a pair of swords and a lute, a medallion, and a bouquet of dandelions.

**Author's Note:**

> title from Welly Boots by The Amazing Devil


End file.
